African 80's

"Lower! Get lower! Bend your knees like this!" The five-foot-tall African man at the front of the room bent his knees at a 90 degree angle, his loose, patterned pants almost brushing the floor. "See, watch me... one and two and ba ba ba."

"Of course he's lower than us. He's half our size." I hissed to Cate as our thigh muscles spasmed with the effort.

I had dragged her to the African Dance class in Brooklyn Heights on Saturday morning. The two of us were dripping sweat as we contorted our bodies into the most unnatural of positions. Or, one could argue, they were the most natural positions – years of modern American living with Serta spring mattresses and lazy boys having rendered them nearly impossible.

As I arched my back and flailed my arms wildly to the rhythm of the African drums, I looked around the room. This dance class featured the same dynamic of every other dance class I’d taken since tap at seven-years-old. The talented teacher’s protégées hogged the mirror in the front row, the rhythmless, skinny white girls hid in the back, the token male in the class (who's guaranteed to be black, gay or both) gyrated his hips front and center, while the rest of us filled in rows two and three.

In my head, I rated everyone’s grace, ability and style. I put myself somewhere in the middle – perhaps 12th best of 20. Not bad for my first day. Leave it to me to turn African Dance into a competitive sport.

I enjoyed watching the people who were really good (the winners) – their heads bobbing, hair thrown back, legs working overtime. I couldn’t stop staring the token male. He was white, so he must have been gay. He was the most into the groove by far, although his style appeared to be more African-American than African. You’re supposed to be gathering the grain, dude, not smacking that ass.

After an hour of warm-ups, floor exercises and a short routine, Cate and I were exhausted. Not too exhausted, however to perform our African dance routine in an embarrassing, vodka-induced Romy & Michelle-esque display at an 80’s theme-party that night, complete with miniskirts and side ponytails. This would make us the losers of African Dance. If not the losers of the party. Maybe the losers of the entire 80’s.